


Red and Green

by Miss_L



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fuck perfect, M/M, Muggle world, Quick Fuck, Smut, also canonical relationships falling apart, because I can and want to, movie-verse and ending, night club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter likes to go to a Muggle night club for some anonymity after a long day of being the Wizard Who Defeated Voldemort. For Draco Malfoy, anonymity has become a necessity. Also, he likes the music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_They were falling upwards now. Harry could only wonder at his mind’s ingenuity as he watched his friends and family, both dead and alive, soar into the skies and disappear into a black cloud, shaped like a snake’s head and oozing purple ink. He stood amidst a desolate landscape, gripping his wand. But when he raised it to stop the torrential ascent, it turned into a rope – limp and useless, just like Harry himself felt. All was quiet after the last person – Professor McGonagall, as it happened – flew into the stratosphere. The young wizard felt his chest constrict with dreadful anticipation. The skies split with a roaring thunder and everybody came back. But while they were falling, cloth, skin and muscle detached themselves from the gleaming white bones. Harry gritted his teeth and tried to move, to do something to stop this, but all he_ could _do was watch the skeletons tumble down, crash into dust on the forbidding soil. He stood there, paralysed, staring at the ground whitening with the grit of his loved ones._

Harry woke up sweating and panting. He didn't budge, however, while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the morning light – he was used to the nightmares after 9 years. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Defeated Him-Who-Must-Still-After-All-This-Time-Not-Be-Named-Because-Even-Wizards-Are-Superstitious, reached for his glasses and got up. An ale bottle rolled from under his foot and he stumbled over a take-out box on his way to the bathroom. Perhaps it was time to stop moping and clean up. The current state of disarray in his apartment, on top of being a man’s home, was due to the fact that Ginny left him about three months ago. 

_More like two months, twenty-nine days and ten hours,_ Harry’s trained mind suggested. If he wanted to be an Auror, he needed to learn to notice and remember small details. Lesson number one, Professor Fleinhardt. He was _not_ obsessed with his ex. Well, maybe a little. But who wasn’t? Either way, they hadn’t been in contact since, and the dull ache in Harry’s chest was finally diminishing a bit. While he had loved Ginny even before falling in love with her, they had only had a short time enjoying each other’s company after defeating Voldemort. After a few months, small fights started turning into bigger ones. Harry was focused on his studies and work as an Auror, Ginny went back to Hogwarts to finish her last year. They wrote to each other less and less. When she came home for Christmas, they decided to take a break. The following summer, however, the two reconciled and had managed to get through a whole year together.

Three months ago, the cauldron was finally full and Ginny Weasley left the boy she had been in love with since she was eleven. In hindsight, it was perhaps better this way. Neither of them had quite gotten over their combined school career, and, if anything, they reminded each other too much of what they had lost back then. Friends, family, innocence. 

Harry got out of the shower and dressed himself. He didn't have to get to class for another hour, and – as per usual – he had the fastest model broom. With a deep sigh, the young man put his wand in his pocket and got a big plastic bag. He preferred not to use magic unless it was necessary, and working with his hands always gave him a particular feeling of accomplishment. In the span of half an hour, the bag was absolutely full of garbage. At least Hermione would stop calling his apartment “a health hazard” and offer to help clean up. 

Hermione. He would never understand why Ron left for Romania without much explanation, but Hermione seemed to take it better than the last time he had gone off. It would seem that relationships forged in the wake of the Battle had been almost as poisonous as Voldemort himself. Perhaps they all needed time to heal on their own, instead of losing themselves in other people. 

***

For the first time since he started university, Harry couldn’t wait to go home. It seemed like all of his admirers had flocked to the campus today with the sole purpose of standing in large groups, gawking at the Hero of Hogwarts, and blocking all passageways. He hated it. Potter has never quite gotten used to being famous, and it bothered him, especially when he was in a bad mood already. He escaped to the parking, grabbed his broom and flew off into the early twilight. His double slowly dissipated in full view of disappointed fans. 

Studying wasn’t happening. Harry was restless and anxious, and words swam in front of his eyes as he tried to understand the difference between “detaining” and “holding” a suspect. Finally, he slammed the book shut and stood up. He knew where to go. Sneakers, leather jacket, and somewhat more stylish glasses than the ones he usually wore (he was still clumsy as hell). A short walk and three tube-stops later, cold evening air greeted Harry as he emerged in London city – Muggle side. There were a few pubs where he liked to go with his friends, some nightclubs he would only take Ron to, and then there was “The Red Lady”. The name was rather misleading, as there were no particularly coloured females of the species. Just a lot of people who liked to dance in a sweaty mass, cloaked in anonymity. Harry hadn’t gone to any of the gay nights – he was not yet ready to explore that side of himself – but he enjoyed losing himself in the crowd. So different from what he was used to in the Wizarding world, where everybody knew his name, face, and shoe-size. Here, he could be himself. Just Harry.

Potter enjoyed the soft buzz of alcohol in his brain, the heat and proximity of other people, the loud music reverberating within every inch of his body. Hands, arms, torsos swaying to the rhythm, interlacing, touching, stroking. Two slim, but strong and unmistakably masculine arms enveloped him from behind, elegant fingers tracing a path from his ribs to his sternum. Following an unspoken question, written in heat and passion, Harry slowly turned around and froze. Insistent hands fell to Draco Malfoy’s sides. Potter took in the sight before him: sleek, platinum blond hair he remembered so well grown out, falling over Draco’s almost translucent eyes, silk black shirt and really - _really_ \- tight leather trousers. Harry checked again. _Very_ tight. And little else – did we mention the trousers were _tight?_

 _Figures that the git would be a kinky fucker in a Muggle setting,_ Harry thought as two instincts fought on the edge of his conscious mind. On the one hand, he really wanted to grab Malfoy, knock him out but good and drag him back to the Ministry. To be incarcerated forever and ever in Azkaban, exonerating circumstances be damned. On the other hand, he really wanted to grab Malfoy, drag him to a bathroom stall or the nearest pay-per-hour motel and fuck him but good. Never to walk properly again, and common sense be damned. As Harry’s eyes roamed Draco’s trim body and full lips, his baser instincts seemed to win over righteous anger. The smug grin spreading over those hated, yet handsome features showed that even without Occlumency, the git knew what Potter was thinking. And he was definitely game, Harry realised as Malfoy stepped closer and wrapped his arms once again around Harry’s waist.


	2. Chapter 2

He could blame the alcohol, Potter thought, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. Again. Say that the few beers he’s had had muddled his better judgment after a long day. But he would be lying, and Harry had kicked the habit of lying to himself. Mostly. Draco was clearly very well acquainted with the club, because he dragged Harry forcefully towards the other end and out the door, leading – apparently – to the adjoining building. Half-way the narrow passageway, Malfoy flicked his wand - _Where the hell is he keeping that?_ \- and a new door appeared. It was black and non-descript, but Harry sensed magic and isolation on the other side. He gulped again. 

Upon _much_ closer inspection, Draco’s trousers turned out to be dragon hide. Even in hiding, the twat was pretentious. What was interesting was the thin and supple quality of the leather, which would otherwise be tough and unyielding – but now was not the time to wonder about tailoring. 

“Come here often?” Harry quipped, avoiding Malfoy’s lips and latching onto the young man’s deliciously exposed neck.

“Yeah,” the former Death Eater admitted without shame. “Gay night is especially interesting.”

“F-fuck,” Harry stuttered, a sudden surge of heat to his groin forcing him to rut against Draco’s thigh. The blonde youth sniggered, then moaned when Potter fisted his hair in retaliation. Pulling Malfoy’s head back, Harry sucked a rather large hickey on his collar bone. The shirt had to go. And so did the expensive Italian leather shoes and those slick, supple trousers. Shame, really, but Harry didn't much care for fashion when he needed to feel skin, right now. He more or less tore Draco’s clothes off, only stopping to deftly undo the green python leather belt – he knew there would be hell to pay if he _actually_ damaged anything. As suspected, Malfoy wasn’t wearing pants. 

Despite being on the run, and having some badly healed scars which were quite obviously put there by none other than Voldemort – not to mention the tattoo, that now rested unmovin under Draco’s skin as an eternal sign of his bad judgment – Malfoy looked magnificent. His subtle musculature played under his skin with every movement, and Harry felt his mouth go extremely dry when the git cocked his head seductively, never breaking eye-contact. 

“What are you waiting for, Potty?” Draco cooed mock-bashfully. He closed his eyes with a knowing smirk, and now it was Harry’s turn to get naked. And _fast._ As if he had read his mind (he could have, for all Potter knew), Malfoy produced his wand again, and gone were Harry’s clothes. Well, not completely gone – he looked around him in panic to find them neatly folded on a nearby table. Draco walked towards him and took of Potter’s glasses. While he would have felt safer with his glasses on, right now, he didn't care much. He was naked, defenceless, at Malfoy’s complete mercy – probably just as the blonde liked it – and good eyesight wouldn't do much good.

They kissed. It was feral and with way too much teeth, but neither man complained. Harry turned Draco over and pushed his thighs against a table, then his chest. His hand travelled upwards to Malfoy’s pale neck and he pushed his enemy’s head against the slick wood. The slightly taller man complied – for now. Harry wasn’t entirely sure what came next, but it didn't seem to matter much to Draco, who seemed in a terrible hurry to have Potter buried inside his arse. At least, that’s what his never-ending stream of cussing and moaning hinted at. _Lube,” Harry’s lust-fogged mind suggested. They needed lube, or some sort of-_

“Just fuck me already, Potter,” Malfoy finally gritted out through his teeth. 

“But-“ 

“Just do it!” That sounded more like a howl than anything else, and Harry was secretly very proud of himself for tearing off Draco’s mask of composure. 

Slowly, he aligned his painfully hard cock and pushed against the other’s entrance. It gave way with surprising ease. _Spell,_ was all that Harry’s mind could come up with before it shut down completely, replaced by the feeling of slick slide against tight muscle. Draco’s relieved groan was truly a thing of beauty, as was the pale skin of his back, almost luminous in the dim light. Harry stroked, then clawed at said back while he set a steady pace. The table he was fucking Malfoy against creaked in protest, but took the pounding – just like the man himself. His face, what Potter could see of it, looked blissful, almost happy, the little sounds coming from his swollen lips contradicting his angel-like beauty with their filthy quality. Harry loved it. 

The sensations were overwhelming, and Draco would never let him live down the embarrassment of coming first, so Potter grabbed a gentle, but firm hold of the blonde youth’s leaking cock and stroked it in time with his thrusts. He must have been doing something right, because Malfoy’s moans turned much, _much_ more vocal. Harry leaned forward and skimmed the outside of the other’s ear with his lips. 

“I could have you arrested, Malfoy,” he whispered hoarsely. Draco clenched around his cock and keened. “Taken to Azkaban, never to be heard of again.” Another loud moan. Malfoy was pushing his beautiful arse back against Harry with every thrust now, his back arched in an almost painful-looking manner. “Visit you every now and again… Fuck you sometimes, too.” Shouting and shivering, Draco came. Potter followed suit, buried to the hilt within his enemy, filling him up. Just the thought of it made him want to come again. 

When Harry came round, he was lying on the table, his cock limp and sticky against his thigh. Malfoy handed him his glasses and he sat up slowly. Of _course_ the smug git was dressed again, clothes and hair looking like he hadn’t just been roughly had in a back room. His expression was unreadable, and if Harry hadn’t felt the post-coital buzz and smelled Draco’s expensive eau-de-cologne on his own skin, he might have thought it had all been a dream. Or a vivid hallucination. 

“See ya next time, Potter.” 

With that, Draco disapparated out of the room. His use of Harry’s last name had sounded almost… Tender. The owner of said name groaned tiredly and reached for his clothes, then disapparated to his apartment. He didn't bother to get dressed again; instead, he fell down on his bed and pulled the duvet under his chin. He wouldn't need alcohol to fall asleep tonight. 


End file.
